


beautiful stranger (here you are)

by sarahsjohnb



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: F/M, and an attempt to make sense of my many feelings following the conclusion of s1, the way i havent written anything in 3 yrs and now here i am, this is 3k words of pure self indulgent TRASH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26855947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahsjohnb/pseuds/sarahsjohnb
Summary: no one asks questions in nassau.it’s something sarah couldn’t be more grateful for as they step off the boat, at least looking marginally better than when they stepped on it. the sunburn’s started fade, the salt crust was washed from their hair. their clothes now clean and dry, no longer smelling of sea and salt and engine fuel and a little like death.in nassau, the world seems to turn a little easier than it did in the outer banks. no one asks any questions — of what two teenagers seem to be doing here, eyes skittish and hands clasped; looking over their shoulders and holding their breaths.no one cares.( sarah isn’t sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. )//or, a look at sarah and john b's life following their arrival in nassau.
Relationships: Sarah Cameron/John B. Routledge
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	beautiful stranger (here you are)

**Author's Note:**

> putting it out there now, this was written in 24 hrs, is rusty as hell and i'm not entirely happy with the ending. but still, i'm flinging into the void because i have so many damn feelings; and there's nothing fic wise out there for my children.
> 
> title is from finally // beautiful stranger by halsey

no one asks questions in nassau.

it’s something sarah couldn’t be more grateful for as they step off the boat, at least looking marginally better than when they stepped on it. the sunburn’s started fade, the salt crust was washed from their hair. their clothes now clean and dry, no longer smelling of sea and salt and engine fuel and a little like death.

in nassau, the world seems to turn a little easier than it did in the outer banks. no one asks any questions — of what two teenagers seem to be doing here, eyes skittish and hands clasped; looking over their shoulders and holding their breaths.

no one cares.

_**(** _sarah isn’t sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. _**)**_

—

they pawn the gold that saved their life as soon as they can, finding some shitty little pawn shop with an attendant that speaks english; even if she negotiates _hard_.

the money they get is miles ahead of the $25,000 barry was willing to part with for it. **_(_** though, that might have something to do with the fact john b’s a more level headed negotiator than jj ever was, willing to walk away if the deal wasn’t good. she never wants him more than she does in those moments, arms crossed over his chest, face calm and hard and passive — if they still had the van, she’s pretty sure that she’d be blowing him before they went home. _**)**_

she reached for his hand as they left the pawn shop, wads of cash stuffed into john b’s backpack. “...you were pretty sexy in there.”

“oooh.” john b drawls, eyes alight with mirth. “valerie... are you daring to having impure thoughts?”

she giggles a moment later, giddy and breathless as his arms loop around her waist, spinning her there in the sidewalk.

it hits her like a ton of bricks then, the freedom that they fought so hard for; the ability to determine their own fates and their own lives. they may only be a few weeks into this and them, but it’s the most real thing sarah’s ever felt. 

“i love you.” john b murmurs into her hair.

sarah freezes, eyes a little in awe as she gazes up at him. “i —”

he shakes his head. “you don’t have to say it back. i know...” he huffs slightly, frown deepening between his brows. “i remember what you said. in the bell tower. about... bailing. but i wanted to say it. and maybe it’s too soon but it’s true and i don’t wanna hold it in any more. i... i’m in love with you.”

and oh, this boy. this boy, who risked death and life and social suicide for her. who never pressured her, who never asked for labels and definitions; who was surprised when she was the one that wanted to go public. who brought her into the fold of the pogues; who handed her the scissors to cut away the bubble wrap. who understood what it was she meant when she said she bailed --- that it was just the sex and the intimacy, but something deeper.

_this fucking boy._

“...i was going to say i love you, too.” sarah grinned, chin hooking on his chest as she looked up at him. “you dork. never let me finish.”

john b’s mouth was half open, gaping like a fish --- and she’s reminded, again, that this boy who she loves, is so used to things going wrong and never his way --- and he’s kinda clueless as what to do when it goes right for change.

so, sarah merely shakes her head, squeezing his hip and tugging him down the road, further into town.

“come on vlad. you owe me a sandwich.”

—

in the end, sarah’s the one that finds them the little beach shack a few miles up from the quieter marina in town. it’s old and dilapidated, sure as shit that it’s seen better days. no one comes up this half of the beach, the owner says, locals convinced it’s haunted.

john b casts a look at sarah at that, and she merely shrugs. if a few ghosts is the cost of privacy, so be it. besides, she muses, looking at the main bedroom, the sturdy frame that comes with the house. it’s nothing compared to the horrors they outran in the outer banks.

“the electricity’s good.” john b drawls from behind her, warm and sweaty from a look outside at the wiring. there’s a smear of dirt on his left cheek. “stumping seems to be holding up. bones of the house aren’t completely rotten either.”

sarah nods idly, eyes casting to the second, smaller bedroom across the hall. the pogues could use that. or maybe... someone else.

“kitchen needs a bit of work through.” john b continues, hand coming to settle on her hip. “i’m not sure how much a fridge’ll cost down here, but.”

but the cash stuffed in john b’s backpack is their breathing room, their safety net; and the guy they bought the shack from mentioned a job for sarah in towwn, and john b’s already started asking about work on the marina, and — and sarah is breathless with it, this heady feeling of life and survival and forever with the first boy who made her feel loved enough to want something of her own. of the idea of having a life, a family — one that wasn’t dependent on a bank account to keep them together. 

“but we’re gonna be okay.” she murmurs.

—

their house is small, but its theirs. the furniture is used and has seen better days, but they keep it clean; local art peppers the walls, two small photos of big john are stuck to the fride. their house is small, but its theirs.

and every morning without fail, the sun filters in from their own windows, carrying a breeze from the ocean; casting golden beams over their crumpled bed sheets. some mornings, the ocean wakes them. others, they rise all on their own.

there’s a truth universally acknowledged between them, that sarah’s an expert at riding him. she took to it like a duck to water, enjoys it more than any other position they’ve tried. sarah’s never analysed the ways of her proclivities and kinks, just delights in the fact that john b loves her so much, to the point of wanting to give her whatever the fuck he can, in all ways possible. _ **(**_ the gold, a house in the bahamas, the good rum from up the beach — and like this morning, riding him into oblivion. _**)**_

her hips move slowly, luxuriously, walls rhythmically fluttering around his cunt. 

john b releases a shaky breath under her, eyes hooded as his hands grip her hips with increasing tightness.

“o-oh...” sarah whimpers, head lolling forward, hair falling around them in golden waves. ( maybe she likes it like this because of the control. maybe she likes it like this because it feels like she’s taking him apart, bit by bit; maybe she likes it because it feels as if he’s there for her pleasure and her pleasure alone — though, there’s probably something worrying in the way she likes to use people for her own gain. )

a loose chuckle falls from his lips, voice hoarse around the edges. maybe he’s a little fucking further gone than sarah first assumed. his hands smoothed up from her hips, over her ribcage, coming to cup her tits, thumbs brushing slightly over her nipples. “feelin’ good baby?”

sarah gasped, high and reedy in the back of her throat, arching into his touch. her hips jerked a little harder. “— yeah...”

“i can tell.” he murmurs, voice breathy and soft. his gaze flickers down to where they’re joined. “christ, you’re wet. drippin’ on me.”

her touch is jerky as she grabs his other hand, fitting his thumb against her clit, letting him gather the remnants of her slick. without prompt and in tune as ever, he circles gently, in time with the sway of her hips: delighting in the way she twitches with it, the way a whine slips from her lips.“c-close. oh —”

she raggedly drags a breath in, chest swelling with it, and john b chokes on his own moan: he squeezes around her tit, just this side of rough.

she clenches around him further, and maybe — john b goes a little cross eyed, or maybe sarah’s just seeing things. “fuck, sarah.”

her hips lift up a little higher, sliding down slow and slick, his cock notching against that spot deep inside her — and she tenses, back arching, body pressing into his hands at all their points of contact. her mouth falls open, tension coiled tight. it pulls and it tugs at the base of her spine, itching across her back. she does it again, lifting and sliding; bringing him home into the warm, snug velvet clutch of her cunt.

john b merely gazes up at her with wonder and awe and love; drifting away as she does like this, lost to her own pleasure, the single-minded desire to make herself cum. 

“what do you need, baby?” john b coos, mouth knotched up into a grin. sweat gathers at his temples, a sure sign that despite his facade — he’s a little more gone than she first thought.

“y — you.” sarah gasps, back arching sharply. “please.”

without warning, john b hauls himself up to sit, arms wrapped around her back, pressing his face into her tits. “you have me.” 

he holds her tighter, and sarah moans louder, the movement of her hips being sharp and fast and quick, akin to bouncing when it happens --- the coil shatters, and warmth floods her entire system. everything in her throbs with the effects of her orgasm; little gasping noises coming from high in her throat. all the while, her man, her love, works her through it. lips pressing softly to her neck, rolling her hips almost mindless — as sarah eventually slumps against his chest.

her breath comes heavy, in pants blowing across his skin and sarah swallows. everything feels golden around the edges, and it’s with increasing clarity she realises that he’s still hard inside her. “did you ---”

john b shakes his head, pressing a kiss to her temple. “nah.”

his hips shift under her, and it’s fucking torture, is the thing. she’s pilant and lax on top of him, still fucking dripping; her hands making idle, smooth passes along his skin.

sarah pressed a wet kiss to his jaw. “you wanna —?”

there’s something desperate in his gaze as john b nods, a little jerky; and sarah beams at him. her hand squeezes his shoulder, staying lax as he rolls her under him.

her legs fall open, the action more natural than any of the other times she’s been in this position — topper and denny and guys she never has to see again, never has to worry about again.

all that matters is john b, their small shack and the life they’re building together.

“go on.” sarah breathes, hips rolling up just slightly into his.

there’s a broken moan falling from his lips, and sarah fucking beams with it, nose nuzzling into his cheek. “go on, baby. i wanna feel you.”

his hips move, cock sliding out and sliding in — it’s all too smooth, all too easy, sarah’s eyes rolling back in her head just slightly. _**(**_ there’s also probably, something worrying in how much she likes it like this, too, her man and her love using her as much as she uses him. although, maybe use isn’t the right word. maybe it’s need. how much she needs him to be like this, happy and stated and lingering with the aftershocks of a good, long orgasm; how much he needs her, to the point where their sheets are ruined with it. _**)**_

john b doesn’t last long — hips jerking into hers a handful of times before he groans; hips pushing into hers with one last, deep thrust. and then she feels it, the warmth of his own seed inside her, leaking and gathering a little on her thighs.

he collapses onto her chest, arms weak and sarah hums happily. her hands go to his hair, stroking through the damp, sweaty strands.

“i love you, val.” john b hums.

sarah presses a kiss to his hair. “i love you, vlad.”

—

they make love every night for two weeks straight, drunk on love, freedom and a country that doesn’t care. it’s fucking bliss.

—

the gold becomes a distant want. the more time they have, the more alone they are, the more they realise they had the life already. everything they thought the gold would buy them — freedom, a home, love, working electricity and no adults to bother them... they already have.

do they need the gold, when they already won the jackpot with each other?

—

sarah buys the first of three pregnancy tests a few days after her 18th birthday. ( it’d been a quiet celebration, just the two of them and not a care in the world. two cupcakes and a bottle of rum, before she goaded john b into fucking her over the back of their couch. like the dork he is, he apologised for the bruises on her hips, the tops of her thighs, kissed them softly and lovingly. sarah only grinned, telling him it was the best birthday in years. )

and here’s the thing. it’s been two years since the outer banks and the pogues, since the gold was all that fucking mattered, since they talked about going full kook.

she’s got a stable job, a desk secretary for the same man who sold them their house. john b spends every weekend fishing with the locals for the markets, and two days a week takes tourists out to the coral reefs.

there’s not a hint of violence; of murder charges or ward cameron; dcs is but a distant, dim memory. there’s food on the table, in their fridge; frozen for the weeks that there’s a bad catch. 

life is good.

pure.

simple.

so why the fuck is she terrified at the tiny pink plus?

the door opens, creaky as it always does and in a fit of panic, sarah stuffs the positive test behind the toilet paper. ( old habits die hard, she resolves, as dealing with it later seems the most prudent course of action. )

—

like most things, sarah can’t really keep secrets from john b for long.

her head in a toilet bowl at the mere whiff of dinner two days later — and sarah’s secret gets shot to fucking hell. in a way, it’s not like she’s mad at the secret coming to life. she wants this. she knew it was going to happen eventually — lucky as they were it didn’t happen when they first moved in. she just wishes she had the words to talk about it. to make it seem less scary, and not like she was an 18 year old, throwing her life away for a romanticised idea of forever with a fugitive.

“...baby?” john b murmurs, holding her hair back for her; smoothing away the loose strands.

sarah groans softly, head lolling on her arm. “hi.”

“do you think it was something you ate?”

she shook her head no.

john b’s lips pursed. “flu?”

again, sarah shook her head. she had to tell him. fuck, she had to tell him.

john b frowned, a warm hand pressing to the cool, clammy skin of her forehead.

the words dragged up her throat, rattling around in her mouth. then, blurted out without any care or grace: “i’m pregnant.”

he froze, hand on he cheek, eyes a little too wide. “...oh.”

sarah bit her bottom lip. “yeah. and i’d... wanna keep it.”

_**(** _not that she ever thought john b wouldn’t want that. not that she ever thought they were anything less than on the same page, but. fuck. now that she’s said it, admitted it, she wants it. she barely remembers her own mother, dying when she was so little. she can’t remember how her voice sounded, whether she liked chocolate or vanilla; whether she was anything like her mother at all, or if she got it all from ward. she wants... to do this. to do it right. to be the mom she never had, by the virtue of a freak accident and one too many cocktails. _ **)**_

john b swallowed, the edges of his mouth dragging up slightly, into a smile. “you’re pregnant.”

“yeah.”

his smile turns to a full beam. “we’re gonna be parents.”

—

_**(**_ she wakes up at 2am to the soft sounds of john b’s voice, talking to her belly, murmuring words of promise and encouragement; letting the little peanut know all about what he planned to do. how he planned to be the best father known to man. promising that he’d never give it all up for ship wrecks and lost causes. 

...and well. sarah doesn’t say anything. because they both have their demons when it comes to their parents and the legacy they left behind. she has no right to judge john b for his. _**)**_

—

their son is born during a summer storm; in their own bed, a no nonsense local midwife at the helm.

sarah cries; she screams, she hurts and hurts and hurts. she begs for it to be over, threatens john b that he’ll never get to touch her again after this was all over. that his fingers and his cock and orgasms was fucking worth this.

and when it came too, the first cries of their little boy — exercising his lungs in the only way a routledge ever could, and sarah weeps.

_**(**_ they name him matthew, forgoing the ghosts of parents passed and friends last; letting their little one determine their own fate. a few months later, sarah forgoes cameron for routledge. _**)**_

—

with every passing day, their reasons for returning to the outer banks grow murkier and murkier; become harder to hold onto against the beauty of their home, of nassau; of their son taking his first steps on the beach; of taking him out on the hms pogue ii, the sun beating on the backs.

life as she knows it is a far cry from what she thought it would be. there’s no college. there’s no parties and sororities; there’s no ward cameron breathing down her neck. no rose and her ever present drinks. there’s no topper, no figure eight condo waiting for her when she gets home.

but there is love. more than she ever thought possible.

across the pogue, matthew squalls, looped over john b’s shoulders, his pudgy hands pointing at the dolphins in the water.

yeah. there is love.

**Author's Note:**

> reviews are life, reviews are love.


End file.
